


My Fairy King

by brothebro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Married Idiots In Love, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, a smidge of angst, arthuriana inspired, flashfic, no beta we die like Geralt's last braincell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Anyhow, the big fat secret --or maybe not secret-- is that Jaskier is very much not human, at all, but a Fae. More specifically, Fae of the Summer Court. Even more specifically, a Fae prince of the Summer Court. Oh, who’s he trying to kid? Himself? He’s the bloody crown prince of the Fae! Alright?or: Jaskier is the crown prince of the Fae and they try to lure him back to take the throne, while Geralt gets stupidly entangled in the Fae's tricks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 480
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #004





	My Fairy King

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Queen's song "My Fairy King"  
> ~enjoy xoxo

Jaskier is pretty happy with the current status of his life, happily married to a hunk of a man -- and oh boy is Geralt a smouldering hot man -- and his wanderlust sated by following his gorgeous husband from town to town and contract to contract. And it’s for the best really. Jaskier cannot stay in the same place for long, his very nature forbids him to. 

_ Well, that’s a lie.  _

He can’t stay long in the same place because that’s what a man in hiding does and gods forbid he allows his pursuers to catch his scent (quite literally if he might add). And let’s not forget how very bloody inconvenient that would be for him. His darling Witcher, the sun of his life, the father of their brilliant daughter has no bloody clue of Jaskier’s more… delicate position.

Forty years they’ve travelled together, fifteen of those happily married and his beautiful smart husband, hair white as snow, eyes golden like the summer sun, muscles chiselled from the clearest smoothest marble… He could go on and on about the beauty of his Geralt. But he won’t elaborate further right now. Yes, well, to Jaskier’s knowledge Geralt has no idea that well, he is firstly very much a wanted man and secondly that he’s not entirely human. 

Jaskier hasn’t lied to the man of course. No, he merely omitted a few crucial details about himself.

_ Though Geralt might suspect that he’s not human, or he might not want to bring it up because he’s a Witcher and he knows and he most likely doesn’t care.  _

Anyhow, the big fat secret --or maybe not secret-- is that Jaskier is very much not human,  _ at all _ , but a Fae. More specifically, Fae of the Summer Court. Even more specifically, a Fae prince of the Summer Court. Oh, who’s he trying to kid? Himself? He’s the bloody crown prince of the Fae! Alright? 

He made a quick escape when both his parents died in a freak gardening accident before his relatives could shackle him to the Fae realm as their king. And he never looked back. Not once. 

He is, of course, aware that he shouldn’t keep a secret like this from his husband; that’s not a decent or moral thing to do. But he strongly believes that he’ll protect him like this. After all, the Fae are fickle creatures, tricksters, not to be trusted. If they ever found out their crown prince is married to a Witcher? Oh dear, he fears for his love’s safety. 

So here they are, walking the Path together as they’ve always done, so many decades now. Geralt has just finished a hunt, a pesky little cockatrice -- well, alright, that’s a figure of speech it was not that little! It was huge the bloody thing! But he prevailed with no much as breaking a sweat to boot! And Jaskier has been keeping a safe distance until the bloody thing was properly disposed of, thinking of sweet heroic lyrics to praise his brave White Wolf. 

His Geralt is dirty, drenched in ichor and blood, his eyes still black, spiderwebs of dark veins surrounding them. They are marching through the woods, the sun shining high above them when they stumble upon the most beautiful little clearing, filled to the brim with all types of wildflowers, swaying gently in the light breeze. In the middle of the clearing stands a big rock, so shiny it reflects the sun’s rays in all directions and inside it, sticking out ever so slightly is a sword. 

A sword.

In the middle of the clearing. Inside a shiny rock.

A sword. 

_ Right. _ If this doesn’t scream magical shenanigans, Jaskier doesn’t know what does. 

Nonetheless, Jaskier is too absorbed by the beautiful absurdity of the image that he barely noticed Geralt dashing to the direction of the sword. 

“It’s silver,” he hears Geralt say and Jaskier feels a frigid cold shiver running down his spine. 

_ Oh, bloody fuck!  _

“Whatever you do, don’t --” Jaskier starts saying but it’s too late. Geralt has already a hand on the intricate hilt, ‘--touch the sword… Are you perhaps short of a marble, Geralt?” he shrieks and Geralt smiles at him the bastard as he pulls the sword out of its shiny prison. 

“Relax, Jaskier,” he says, “I can’t smell chaos on --” his sentence gets cut short as a blinding golden light envelops the entirety of the picturesque clearing. 

~***~

When their -- or at least Jaskier’s -- eyes recover from the assault of light, they find themselves on clearing much similar to the one they were before, yet it differs quite a bit. First of all, there is no longer a shiny rock in the middle of it, just the sword that now is held by Geralt’s both hands. And secondly, they are no longer in a forest, well they technically are, if you can call massive blue-green trees adorned with million little lights and hundreds of small embedded in the wood cottages, a forest. 

_ Fuck him, they’re in the Fae realm.  _

“What did I say? Touch the godsdamned, obviously enchanted sword?” Jaskier snaps, “Why in the name of all that is holy did you touch the sword, Geralt?”

“Jas-”

“Why, Geralt? Now we’re trapped here! In this- this-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt growls, readying the newly acquired silver sword, “We’re surrounded.”

And indeed they are. Three dozen of Fae, clad in the typical Summer Court guard attire --bright oranges and yellows-- stand around them in a tightly knit circle. They do not seem hostile though, despite Geralt quite literally growling at them. 

The Fae guards kneel, bowing their heads and amidst them, a Fae woman, dressed in the finest of silks, her wings the brilliant cornflower blue that is only found in Jaskier bloodline, approaches them humbly and carefully. Jaskier knows her and of course he does, even if he hasn’t seen her in half a century. It’s his aunt Roslina. 

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.  _

“The sword has chosen!” she announces, voice loud and clear, “Our new king has arrived baring the proof of his valiance! The sword of the sun!”

_ Wait, what? _

“What are you plotting?” Jaskier spits out, narrowing his eyes at his aunt. 

Roslina purses her lips and rolls her cornflower blue eyes at him, apparently not deeming his question important enough to answer.  _ Oh, that sly fox.  _ Instead, she keeps her eyes fixed at his husband, “Well, our king, shall we show you to your palace?”

“This is a mistake,” Geralt says, his voice quivering ever so slightly, “I’m no king.” 

“Oh but you are,” Jaskier’s aunt retaliates, “The one that has the sword of the sun is our king.” The moment those words leave her mouth Geralt drops the sword to the soft grassy ground.  _ Smart. It seems Geralt knows a thing or two about Fae word-magic.  _ “It does not work this way,” Roslina shakes her head, “The one that pulled the sword from its resting place is said to become our king. Whether the sword is currently in your hands or not is irrelevant.” 

“That can’t be true!” Jaskier shrieks confused even though he knows damn well the Fae cannot, in fact, lie. 

“No one asked for your opinion,  _ bardling _ ,” Roslina snarls baring her pointy set of teeth at him. And so do three dozen guards mimicking her.  _ Wow, they are really angry at him, aren’t they?  _ She quickly morphs the snarl into an amiable smile and speaks to Geralt, who just seems stunned, unable to comprehend what exactly is happening, “It is very much the truth. The sword was created for that exact reason. The only way the title of king of the Summer Court can be forfeited is if the heir of the last king claims it.”

Oh, so this is what it’s all about! A ruse to force Jaskier into becoming their king! He’d made it clear he didn’t want this future for himself when he ran away godsdamnit! Why can’t his relatives take a bloody hint?

“Nothing we can do then,” Geralt says resigned. He locks eyes with Jaskier, lips pressed in a thin line ‘We’ll find a loophole’ this look says. 

But Jaskier knows there is no loophole this time. This time he’ll have to man up and take responsibility. Even if he really really really doesn’t want to. Blame him all you like, but he’s not cut out for ruling other people. He’s made for song and dance and endless travel. 

“May we have your name, my king?” Roslina inquires, a small sly smirk forming on her plump lips. 

_ Oh, hells no! Name magic? _

“Don’t,” Jaskier mutters at his husband’s ear. 

“I know,” Geralt whispers, the volume of his voice impossibly low. He looks at the Fae and announces, “You may know my name, but you cannot have it.”

“That’s fair,” the Fae agree. 

“Geralt of Rivia.” 

“And I’m-” Jaskier starts saying, but his aunt raises her hand to silence him. 

“We don’t care, _ bardling, _ ” her voice full to the brim with vitriol. 

“Do not talk to my husband in this way,” Geralt commands, loud and clear so that every Fae in Summer Court can hear him. 

“Apologies, our majesty.”

~***~

It’s been a good couple of weeks since the Fae made, or rather forced Geralt to be their king. They’ve been spending their time doing incredibly boring courtly duties and after those are finally done searching for any information they can find on the sword and Fae laws. Which is to say, tedious, monotonous and all in all a waste of time.  _ There’s no bloody loophole whatsoever!  _ Not to mention that the Fae king is bound on this bloody realm for as long as he lives! 

Geralt looks very tired already, obviously not cut out for the work; his main duty conversing with his subjects, trying to solve their problems. It is known his White wolf id not a man of many words and after being forced to talk for so long he seems exhausted. Dark shadows painted under his golden eyes, lips chapped and hands more fidgety with nervous energy than ever. When Geralt is done with his courtly duties he locks his lips tight, no word or sound escaping them. 

Jaskier misses his husband dearly. It can’t go on like this. He has to make a choice soon. 

And it doesn’t really help their situation when the Fae keep giving Jaskier the stink eye. They don’t speak or refer to him at all. And that’s another thing that seems to be bothering Geralt, even if he won’t outright state it. 

It’s the twentieth day of no substantial progress to their teeny tiny royal matter that Jaskier decides to take matters in his own hands.

_ Fuck it all, his husband deserves better.  _ If what he is, or rather  _ who  _ he is, leaves Jaskier alone and miserable so be it. At least Geralt will be free to go, live his life away from this madness. 

So, he barges in the throne room when he is certain all ‘important’ members of the court will be attending a political thingamajig, dressed in his most luxurious, most kingly attire; royal blue and purple silks with golden accents. 

“I have come to claim the throne,” he announces, back arched proudly and chin lifted slightly. 

“Finally,” several of his cousins, aunts and uncles mumble between them. 

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” Geralt inquires. 

“I haven’t been quite forthcoming with you my love,” he says and takes a deep breath releasing the magic that held his human form for half a century.  _ It feels nice to be stretching his wings after so long.  _ “I’m Fae,” he admits.

“I know,” Geralt deadpans, “You like reminding me every time you’re drunk.” 

“I- I what?” Jaskier is at a loss of words. He has told Geralt, not once, but multiple times? 

“Now tell me, what the fuck are you doing?”

“There’s no other way, Geralt. No loophole. Nothing. I have to claim the throne so you won’t have to suffer. No, don’t look at me like that. I know you suffer. You hate this job. The very least I can do is spare you,” he closes his eyes briefly to gather his courage and when he opens them he addresses the entire court, “I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, firstborn and only son of the previous king Alfred Johan Pankratz, claim the throne from my husband Geralt of Rivia.” 

“You’re an idiot, lark,” Geralt says, “I was trying to protect you. I know you don’t want this,” he gestures abstractly to the entirety of the room. 

“Well, too bad. I was trying to protect  _ you!  _ My foolish self-sacrificing wolf!” 

“We could have found a loophole!”

“There is no loophole! I know these people! And believe me, when I say it they are crafty and very thorough bastards!” Jaskier all but yells, exasperated. 

Roslina clears her throat in an attempt to grab their attention, or possibly to stop their fighting. This works semi as she might have expected because Jaskier stops yelling, an idea already forming in his mind. 

“Oh, this is brilliant,” he mutters, under his breath, “We’re both colossal fools Geralt! Don’t you understand?”

“No,” Geralt answers truthfully. 

“The Fae king can change the bloody law Geralt! We could have changed the law weeks ago and we would already be in our merry way!” 

Geralt hums, confused, raising a brow; an indication for Jaskier to form coherent and structured thought into comprehensible speech.

“What law would you like to change, my liege?” Roslina queries warily. 

“The law of the Summer Court,” Jaskier responds sternly. A deafening murmur fills the throne room. Jaskier grasps a few ‘oh no’ and ‘he must be mad’ which only serve to make Jaskier’s grin wider. “From now on,” he says, “there will be no king. The people will choose a representative every decade which will serve the realm with its best interest in mind.” 

And because Fae magic is strong, stronger when properly worded, Jaskier knows that Geralt and he are free to return to the Continent. 

_ Finally. _

“Let’s go, my love. We’ve been here enough,” he says interlocking his fingers with Geralt’s and planting a small kiss on his pretty pretty mouth. 

“Can I keep the sword?” Geralt asks truthfully and when Jaskier chuckles amused he adds, “It’s a really good sword!”

“You can keep the sword, Geralt,” Jaskier rolls his eyes smiling softly at his fool of a husband. 

And with a flick of his fingers, he opens a door through the veil that divides the two realms. They step through it, not caring in the slightest for the mess they caused to the Fae realm. 

_ Ah, the Continent’s air sure smells like freedom.  _


End file.
